Should you believe anyone-- especially anyone in the music business-- who insists that "money will ruin everything"? That's the titular warning of record label Rune Grammofon’s latest anthology, a celebration of its first 30 releases. The label even put that claim on a T-shirt. And when I asked Rune Grammofon boss Rune Kristoffersen what he would do if his label ever had a runaway hit, he laughs. "I'd rather not think about it!” he says. “I actually don't know actually. I’m not thinking in those terms at all."

Kristoffersen operates his label out of Oslo, Norway, running it almost as a side project on top of his day job. Since 1998, his catalog has drawn from the experimental wing of Norway's music scene, which is gaining worldwide attention for its confluence of talents-- rock musicians playing austere improv, jazzbos programming electronics, laptop artists remixing contemporary composers. These albums trickle into the States through specialty stores and mail order, and their clean, abstract covers promise something special: not fashionable, not "hip," but uniquely compelling.

The music is therefore speaking for itself. Last year, 6-- the latest release from Rune Grammofon’s flagship act, Supersilent-- appeared on critic’s year-end lists and was written up in The New York Times. It even scored a review in Rolling Stone, where an indie release-- much less an import-- could cure cancer and melt all guns, and it would still likely not be given a single column inch. This year, the label’s breakout release could be Susanna and the Magical Orchestra’s debut List of Lights and Buoys, which has earned rapturous word of mouth despite limited distribution and almost no publicity.

Rune Grammofon is only the latest chapter in Kristoffersen's music career, which started in the 1980s when he played in the synth-pop band Fra Lippo Lippi. The band was a hit in Norway but had varied success around the rest of the world. The only album Fra Lippo Lippi recorded in the States-- Light & Shade, which was produced by Steely Dan's Walter Becker-- was never released in the U.S., but they were monsters in, of all places, a country such as the Philippines.

When the band broke up, Kristoffersen taught for a while before getting into the record business by answering an ad in the newspaper. He took a job as the Norwegian distributor for ECM Records, the legendary independent music label that has influenced Rune Grammofon-- as well as almost every other label where the owner's taste and vision matter as much as the profits. "I couldn't really imagine working in a major company," says Kristoffersen, "It was because it was ECM that it struck me as being interesting. But I always had an ambition to work with musicians as they were developing their ideas, not just [work with] their finished product, like I did with ECM."

Kristoffersen took his chance when he lined up two incredible releases: the three-disc debut of Supersilent and a set of neglected electronic music by Arne Nordheim, Norway's most important living composer. "They were never going to be big sellers or anything, but that was never my motivation,” he says. “I just think that artistically it was a very strong beginning, and set the path ahead."

Supersilent-- formed when musician, producer, and self-described "audio virus" Helge Sten (a.k.a. Deathprod) joined forces with the free jazz trio Veslefrekk-- remain the label's signature act. They synthesize jazz, electronica, and even rock into a wholly original style that exemplifies the label's mission. According to Kristoffersen “Supersilent is the real progressive music of today."

Since those auspicious early releases, Rune Grammofon has become best known for pensive experimental electronica-- crystallized by its first anthology, 1999's Love Comes Shining Over the Mountains-- and jazz and free improv artists such as Spunk and the Scorch Trio. Yet there are also detours. The label's third release was a record by a straight-up indie rock band named Chocolate Overdose. Last year, its surprise record was Jono El Grande's Fevergreens, a twittery and whirling composed work with the manic color of a cartoon soundtrack.

Kristoffersen relishes his label’s diversity. "On the one hand it's necessary to have a more defined profile, which I think I have now,” he says. “On the other hand, I need to have variations. I just think it's important to keep some sort of balance. You have labels that will do this typical laptop form of music, where you can't tell the artists from each other. I could never do that. It doesn't leave any room for development, and it can end up quite boring."

Small independent labels often stick to a defined sound, almost to the point of typecasting themselves. It happens either because they have a limited roster-- usually a survival tactic because a smaller label has no room to surprise or, frankly, confuse its customers-- or because of the inevitable shadow of the boss, whose stamp is on both a label’s aesthetics and production. Think of the unpiercable austerity of Erstwhile, the heavy "church" reverb of ECM, the NPR gloss of Nonesuch, or that studious tone on a Tzadik album that assures you they're reading sheet music. The genre bending that labels advertise is just a red herring: Whether the music is Latin jazz or Steve Reich, your ear knows that the same person is behind it.

Kristoffersen both resists and exploits this. He has built a recognizable brand, one with a quality and refinement that is affirmed by its packaging-- all of which is designed by Kim Hiorthøy. Money Will Ruin Everything has a more diverse "bazaar" feel than the earlier Love Comes Shining, with live tracks, re-mixes, and the label’s best tracks rubbing together in a friction of countless possibilities. But it also highlights the connections between the label’s diverse music, times when the same musicians collaborate or interact and draw lines between their ideas. Kristoffersen has expanded the parameters of what he'll take a chance on, but the albums are packaged like collectibles: your shelf looks bare if you have gaps between Rune Grammofon’s set of dignified white spines.

Outside of mail-order companies, it's hard to find a store that can sell you the full catalog. Rune Grammofon distributes its own records in Norway, and ECM distributes them everywhere else-- except the U. S., which is covered by Forced Exposure. ECM has given the label more exposure but also limited its bandwidth. In 2003, ECM could only handle four releases, whereas Kristoffersen wants to put out six to eight a year. This year, the Susanna and the Magical Orchestra record had been released in both the States and Norway by February but the rest of the world won’t get it until summer.

Forced Exposure is stepping up its U.S. promotion of Rune Grammofon, but the label has approached the market slowly. For example, although there has been interest in a label tour, Kristoffersen says: "We haven't really had any invitations that we can consider yet. And we would need somebody to cooperate locally before we can even start thinking about it. But [if it were possible] we would, definitely."

He especially cherishes the possibility that Supersilent will tour "because they have some really amazing concerts-- and since everything [they do] is improvised they never play the same thing twice. There are so many people who would enjoy Supersilent if they were exposed to the band. I think [their latest album] still has a big potential to reach a lot more people. But of course we don't have the money or the means to do that. It sort of has to happen by itself, and that obviously takes a longer time."

Kristoffersen is also considering extra promotion for Susanna and the Magical Orchestra. With songs like "Believer", or their acclaimed cover of Dolly Parton's "Jolene", the duo is the closest thing he has to a pop act. He expects to use a publicist in the UK to approach "the more pop and rock press, which I normally struggle getting things into." A major label could push it harder, but it also would have sweetened their record for the radio; at Rune Grammofon, with the production help of Helge Sten, they got the desperate but entrancing sound that has captivated their early fans.

But what if the band became a hit? Thanks to file sharing and attracting free press, Kristoffersen’s artists already draw an impressive level of attention. But what would happen if he had the capital to match his bands’ potential? Would money really ruin everything?

"I spoke to [writer and designer] Adrian Shaughnessy-- he's a good friend of Daniel Miller who started Mute-- about that a couple of years ago,” says Kristoffersen. “What happened to Mute is that it got a big success with Depeche Mode. To be able to handle it, Mute had to hire a lot of people. But then you’d still continue to release a lot of marginal artists-- or at least interesting music-- because that's what you wanted to do in the first place. But you’re stuck with this whole workforce that you had to get because of that one success.

"I'm not really in this to try to get a major artist. It would be good for me to get a good seller because then I would have a better working situation. I could cultivate the other artists in a better way because I would have some sort of money coming into the company. That would be a good thing in itself. But what should I do? Should I then hire people who would be laid off when the success is maybe over, and you have to go back to the other things you did? I don't know."

Referring back to his own freak stardom in the Philippines, Kristoffersen says: "You can't predict these things in the pop or rock world. You can't ask for it. There are no rules on how these things happen, and if you try to make them happen then I think you will start to compromise the whole thing."

Even if he keeps his ambitions in check, Kristoffersen has already earned the ultimate luxury-- not a corporate jet or a case of Cristal, but the freedom to quit his day job. This winter Kristoffersen dedicated himself full-time to the label: So money obviously has its upsides. And after making it this far, it'll be interesting to watch how he answers the same questions David Geffen, Jay-Z, and ECM's Manfred Eicher, asked before him: Is this enough?